


left me lookin' like a knife fight

by fadeastride



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeastride/pseuds/fadeastride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been six years and a solid foot of growth between the two of them since they first met.</p><p>The guy in front of him is a little louder, a lot cockier, and so, so good. </p><p>Jonny still fucking hates him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	left me lookin' like a knife fight

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes I roll over in bed at 6 am and text Xochi, "I wanna write a fic where they hate each other because they're stupid and then they get their shit together." This is, of course, for her.
> 
> Pretty much the only part of this that's true is the part with Pat in shorts and a tuxedo jacket.
> 
> Title from Buddy Wakefield's "Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars."

When Jonny’s 13, he meets Patrick Kane for the first time.

The kid’s wearing flip flops and looks like a Renaissance painting of some douchey cherub and Jonny rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts.

Then they get out on the ice.

It takes him all of about ten minutes to decide he hates the guy. Respects him, maybe, but hates him all the same. 

Because, see, Kane is this tiny little thing, quiet in his words but loud in his actions, and he’s the first person to actually give Jonny a run for his money in years.

Jonny’s busting his ass and this runt’s making it look easy.

The rational part of Jonny’s brain knows it’s a good thing, how hard this little shit’s making him work, how much better he’s gonna be because of it.

The irrational part wants to punch him right in his stupid pink mouth.

After the Junior Flyers, he kind of keeps an eye on him when he thinks to, because there’s no way a kid that good doesn’t make it.

They meet again at World Juniors, on opposing sides this time.The kid’s so much better than he was then, but Jonny is too, and Jonny’s got the better team at his back. Beating the USA is always a spectacular feeling, but it’s especially delicious this time, watching Kane with his head down like a dog licking its wounds. After the game, there’s no time to think about him anymore, so he doesn’t. Months go by without more than a passing thought. 

Turns out he was right about that kid making it, though. Because now he’s 19 and watching Patrick Kane get drafted to the Blackhawks, _his_ Blackhawks, and this is gonna suck.

It’s been six years and a solid foot of growth between the two of them since they first met.

The guy in front of him is a little louder, a lot cockier, and so, so good. 

Jonny still fucking hates him.

If the way Patrick looks at him the first day of training camp is any indication, the feeling is mutual. 

So of course the organization pairs them together like a fucking circus act. Jonny gets good at unclenching his jaw in Patrick's presence. Patrick gets good at feigning friendship. They dance around their discomfort as best they can and no one seems the wiser. 

Then they get on the ice. 

The first time Jonny screams at Patrick and Patrick gives back just as hard is a borderline religious experience. 

The rest of the team definitely doesn't feel the spirit. 

Most of the guys just shake their heads when they get going, showering each other with obscenities and threats of violence. Sometimes Sharpy wedges himself between them on the bench, quiets them down when they get to be too much. 

The yelling is one of the best parts of Jonny's day. 

He fucking loves it. Patrick, face red, yelling back with whatever breath he can push out of his lungs between shifts, furious like an act of God. 

The only time Jonny hates him less is when he's flying on the ice, weaving between the other team's defense like they're moving in slow motion. 

Jonny might even admit to liking him then. 

But sometimes, sometimes Patrick gets a little too cocksure when he’s out there, gets a little too fucking fancy, and Jonny’s counting the days til it comes back to haunt them.

And then, of course, it does.

They’re in Detroit, up by two with three minutes left in the third, and Patrick’s showing off. His hands are great, of course they are, but so are Datsyuk’s, and the puck’s in the net before Jonny’s even registered that it’s not on Patrick’s stick anymore.

Jonny can’t hear anything but the roar of the Detroit fans.

Around him, the Wings are showing signs of life, and Khabibulin is looking a little twitchy.

When the next goal goes in, Jonny can’t hear anything over the crash of rage in his own ears.

He’s never wanted to hit Patrick as badly as he does right now. If Patrick weren’t on the other end of the bench, he thinks he would.

The game goes to overtime.

The Hawks go back into the locker room with only one point.

Halfway down the tunnel, Jonny grabs at the back of Patrick’s jersey, yanks him backwards.

“The fuck?” Patrick asks, stumbling over his skates.

“You tell me what the fuck. Pulling your fancy shit out there-”

“Oh, hell no, are you blaming this on _me_?” He looks incredulous, like there’s anyone else Jonny could blame this on.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jonny hisses. “I know you think you’re untouchable, but you’re fucking not, and tonight it cost the team.” 

He’s got Patrick backed up against the wall now. Patrick’s eyes are darting frantically around the hallway, like he’s looking for a way out, and Jonny wants him looking at him.

He gets both hands on Patrick’s face, wrenches his head forward. “Hey, look at me, fucking _look_ at me, just.” Patrick’s staring at him, eyes huge and terrified, and he deflates.

“Just don’t do it again, okay?” he says, gentle.

For a second, it looks like Patrick’s about to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he nods slowly, and Jonny lets go.

They walk to the locker room in silence and neither of them brings it up again.

One of the shitty things about being anointed saviours of a floundering hockey team is that Jonny can’t look anywhere in the city without seeing his and Patrick’s faces.

One of the awesome things about being anointed saviours of a floundering hockey team is that having your face plastered everywhere means there’s no shortage of stupidly attractive women willing to crawl into bed with you.

Jonny’s always done alright for himself, he thinks, but Patrick, Jesus. Patrick acts like he never got laid before the Draft - which, to be honest, Jonny would believe- and he picks up _constantly_. He acts like he’s got game beyond having his face on a billboard and it wouldn’t be so annoying, really, if he didn’t do it on the road so much.

Jonny’s getting really fucking sick of sleeping on the floor of Seabs’ room.

They lost tonight, didn’t go out, and Patrick still managed to bring a girl back to the room with him from God only knows where.

“Hey, bro, can I get the room for a while?” he asks, gorgeous brunette draped over him. Jonny wonders what would happen if he refused to leave; if they’d go somewhere else or if they’d just fuck with him in the other bed.

He grits his teeth and grabs his pillow. “Sure, whatever.”

Seabs looks amused when he answers the door.

"Again?"

"Shut the fuck up." Jonny shoulders his way into Seabs' room and throws his pillow on the floor. 

"Maybe you should sexile him next time. You need to get laid, man."

"Fuck you, I get laid." Jonny sounds petulant even to his own ears. For a minute all he he can think of is Pat hovering over that leggy brunette, maybe whispering in her ear about how good she feels, then he tamps it down. His whole body feels tight and too warm.

Maybe he really does need to get laid.

The next morning, Patrick’s a little too loud about the way the girl looked at him when she was blowing him, about how fucking good she was with her mouth. 

If Jonny checks him harder than practice warrants, well, that’s between him and Patrick, who glares at him but doesn’t say a word.

Four days later, they blank the Sens at the UC and head out to celebrate. Jonny ends up barely in the booth, squishing Steeger in farther so he can keep at least some of his ass on the seat. 

Sharpy’s somehow already commandeered a tray of shots and slides it messily across the table. Jonny grabs at the nearest glass and downs it, ready to feel the float of being a couple in. It burns a little, because naturally Sharpy went cheap on his round. At least he doesn't almost cough his shot up, the way Patrick does, he thinks with pride. 

He chases the shot with a beer and contemplates a second shot before Patrick slides out of the booth and sidles up to some chick at the bar. 

Jonny slams the shot back.

The girl's laughing at something Patrick's saying, which is bullshit because Patrick isn't funny at all. He's got his hand on her hip and Jonny watches the way she leans into it. 

Fuck that. Jonny can pick up, too. 

He finds a girl, short and stacked, blonde hair waving down her back. He lets her put her hands in his back pockets and grind against him. When he looks over her shoulder, he sees Patrick watching them, looking almost confused. 

Jonny grins at him and dips his head till his lips can trace the girl's neck. 

“What do you say we get out of here?” he asks, and she looks up through her lashes at him and nods.

He leads her through the crowd, hand low on her back, and pretends he doesn’t see Patrick staring.

He finds out later that Patrick struck out that night, and it makes something in his gut untwist.

A week later, they lose to Vancouver on the road, an ugly game. Jonny’s on edge when the get back to the room, unable to settle himself.

“Why you always gotta be such a fucking slob, Jesus,” Pat says, throwing a stray water bottle at Jonny the way he does every time they have this conversation.

This time, Jonny throws it back. Hard.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Pat yelps, rubbing his arm.

“I don’t know, Pat, why do _you_ always have to kick me out of my own fucking room?” Jonny doesn’t even know why he’s mad, but god _damn_ he’s pissed right now.

“It’s not my fault no one wants to touch your dick-”

“You’re a fucking slut, you know that?”

Patrick flinches. “What the hell is your problem tonight?”

“You. You are my problem, Pat. Every goddamned night of my life. And I’m fucking stuck with you.” Jonny’s voice is calm in his own ears.

He knows he deserves it when Patrick’s fist meets his cheek.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t swing back.

He tackles Patrick, full body weight slamming him against the wall, but Patrick hooks a foot around Jonny’s ankle and brings them both crashing to the ground. From there, it’s a free-for-all, limbs akimbo, fists and elbows searching for soft flesh. 

Patrick dig his knuckles into the bottom of Jonny’s ribcage. Jonny gets his hand flat against Patrick’s face, presses down until Patrick’s lip splits against his own teeth and Jonny can feel the wet spread of blood under his palm.

Patrick retaliates with a knee to Jonny’s inner thigh, almost rolls them both over when Jonny shifts to keep Patrick’s knee away from his crotch.

He finally gets Pat pinned, breath coming in gasps, faces too close together. Jonny’s horrified to realize he’s hard. He lowers his guard enough that Patrick throws him off.

“You’re a psycho. I’m staying with Sharpy tonight.” He grabs his pillow and stalks toward the door. 

Beneath the pillow, Jonny can see that Patrick’s tenting his sweats too.

He sits there for a minute after the door slams, Patrick’s blood still on his hand. He swipes his tongue through it. Then he takes the coldest shower of his life.

It doesn't stop him from thinking about it, though, about Patrick beneath him, both of them red and panting from exertion. 

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, icy water doing nothing to flag his erection, and wraps his hand around his cock.

 _It was just friction_ , he tells himself later, when his knees are quaking under him. _Just friction._

Sharpy sits across from him at breakfast. He doesn't say anything, just stares at him while he eats his eggs. Jonny can feel himself squirm and he hates it, hates how nervous Sharpy’s making him. Afterward, he claps Jonny on the shoulder, says _good talk_ , and walks away. 

Patrick doesn't get any closer to him than he absolutely has to, and Jonny is glad for the distance. 

He ignores the unsettled feeling in his stomach, marks it up to exhaustion or hunger or something else easily solved.

When sleep and food don’t solve it, Jonny makes it his mission to fuck the hottest girls he can, both in Chicago and on the road. He sexiles Patrick twice and Patrick doesn't even get mad. 

He wants Patrick to get mad.

He tries not to think about why. 

It doesn't work. There's only so many hot blondes you can fuck while thinking about someone else's mouth before you have to come to terms with some things.

Things like, it’s your rookie year and you’re maybe not as straight as you told yourself you were.

He spends three weeks feeling dirty, feeling wrong. Three weeks where he barely yells at Patrick at all, avoids all eye contact, lets Patrick hog the tv without a fight. Patrick looks just as confused as Jonny is, even asks if he’s feeling okay. Jonny lies through his teeth, says he’s just tired. He’s so off-kilter most the time that he knows it’s only a matter of time before it starts to affect his game.

So he Skypes David. 

David stares at him, unblinking.

“Run that by me again,” he says slowly.

Jonny sighs, defeated, and drops his eyes. 

“I think. I think. I like someone.”

“And this someone isn’t a girl.”

Jonny shakes his head..

“Do you want to tell me who it is?”

Jonny’s shoulders slump. 

“Not really.”

David waits, more patient than he’s ever been.

“It’s Patrick.”

“I thought you hated him.” David looks far less surprised than Jonny thinks he should.

“I do! I did. I thought I did. I don’t know, it’s all fucked up.”

David shrugs. "You've always been fucking weird about him."

"Fuck you, weird. What does that even mean?"

"Like, you talk about him all the time, man. All the time. And, yeah, a lot of it is bitching about him, but you don't talk about anyone else that much."

Jonny considers that for a minute.

Thin line between love and hate or something. 

“Have you ever, you know, with a guy before?”

“No, fuckin’ Jesus, Davey.”

“I’m just asking, man!” A pause. “But you want to? With him?”

Jonny’s quiet when he answers. “Yeah. I think so.”

The silence stretches between them like miles.

"So. What now?"

David shrugs. "Dunno. Talk to Seabrook?"

Jonny snorts. _That's_ gonna happen. 

It totally happens. 

To be fair, Jonny doesn’t _mean_ for it to happen.

Seabs calls for a bonding night, plies him with video games and beer. He even lets Jonny win a couple rounds of Mario Kart. Then he drops the question like he's being sly. 

"Hey, so what's the deal with you and Kaner?"

Jonny laughs into his beer. "He's an asshole. He's an asshole and he's so good and I kinda want to kill him but mostly I just wanna fuck him."

It's tumbling out of his mouth before he can swallow the words back. Seabs' eyes go wide. 

"Woah. That's. Okay, that's not what I was expecting."

Jonny's pretty sure death is coming, possibly by his own hand. "Please don't tell him. Oh my god, oh my _god_ , you can’t tell him, oh fuck."

“Hey, no, no, calm down,” Seabs puts his hands out, gentles him like you would a startled horse. “It’s cool. I’m not gonna say anything, I promise. You know I won’t.”

Jonny’s breath is still coming in desperate puffs of air, so close to hyperventilating that he’s afraid he’s gonna puke.

“That’s the.” He takes the deepest breath he can, holds it in his lungs for a beat, two, three, before starting again. “That’s the first time I’ve said that out loud.”

Seabs wraps an arm around his shoulder and tugs him over, envelops him. “Thanks for telling me, kid. I’ll keep your secret. Don’t worry. Come on, let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

Jonny lets Seabs manhandle him off the couch and into his room. He doesn’t even bother changing out of his clothes, just topples onto the bed and drifts out, lightheaded and drunk in the worst way.

At practice the next day, Patrick looks just as exhausted as Jonny feels. He’s all sallow skin and dark circles and Jonny feels a twinge of sympathy he refuses to feed.

Seabs and Sharpy keep huddling together, talking in hushed tones, and Jonny doesn’t like it.. That's shady, that's so fucking shady, and he doesn't trust it at all. 

It’s even shadier when Patrick shows up at the house two days later and Seabs very suddenly needs to go to the store.

Patrick’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s looking everywhere but at Jonny.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he starts. “And I’m gonna try something real quick.”

He take a step into Jonny’s space, and Jonny braces himself.

"If you wanna punch me, that's cool," Patrick says and Jonny feels at a loss because he kind of always wants to punch Patrick. But then Patrick's hands are on either side of his face and _oh_. Patrick kisses him gently, almost shy.

Jonny socks him in the stomach. 

Patrick doubles over, wheezing, while Jonny stutters out apologies. 

"Shit, Pat, fuck, I'm so sorry."

"It's cool, man. I kinda figured-"

"Do it again."

Patrick eyes him. "What?"

"Kiss me again."

"What, so you can hit me again? I’ll pass."

"Pat, please. Just. Come on," Jonny pleads.

Patrick still looks unconvinced, but he leans in again. 

This time, Jonny kisses him back. 

"Oh," Patrick breathes out. 

"Yeah."

There’s a moment of silence, Jonny curling and uncurling his fingers reflexively in the quiet air.

Patrick’s mouth quirks into something like a grin.

"So now what?"

Jonny laughs. "No clue."

Patrick waggles his eyebrows. "I mean, I've got some ideas."

"Holy Christ, you're so embarrassing, how do you ever get laid?"

"Hey hey hey, don't act like you don't want all of this."

Jonny groans. "God, don't remind me. 

Patrick laughs and pulls Jonny in again. Jonny goes willingly. 

Later, it’s different, but the more things change, the more they stay the same,

They still scream at each other like they always did, but now Jonny can admit that it kind of gets him hot.

Apparently Patrick agrees.

After a particularly brutal practice, when they’ve all showered, Patrick tells Seabs he’ll give Jonny a ride home and then drags Jonny down the hall. When he’s sure no one’s watching, he pulls Jonny into a supply closet, presses him back against the door.

A supply closet. “Are you serious right now?”

Patrick’s hands are already on his belt. “Hell yeah, I’m serious. I mean, unless you want me to blow you at Seabs’ place?”

Point.

“Fuck, man, something about you yelling at me, making me better and shit, it’s like,” Patrick doesn’t finish his sentence, just bites Jonny’s neck while he gets his belt undone. 

He wasn’t sure about the supply closet before, but his dick is definitely on board now.

Okay, scratch that, he’s still a little disgruntled about the supply closet.

“You know, I wasn’t thinking our first time was gonna be like this.”

Patrick’s already sinking to his knees. “Don’t get romantic on me now, bitch.”

Jonny snorts and then bites his own tongue because Patrick’s wrapping that stupid, beautiful mouth around his cock.

He lets his hands rest on Patrick’s head, just a little pressure, and tries not to focus too hard on whatever it is Patrick’s doing with his tongue _holy shit_.

Patrick pulls off with a wet pop. “You know I’m not some delicate little flower, right? I like it when you’re rough, I can handle it.”

“You want me to -” Jonny gestures uselessly with his hand.

“Go for it, man.” Patrick’s grin is fucking lethal.

Jonny curls his fingers into Patrick’s hair, rolls his hips experimentally, and watches Patrick’s eyes slide closed. Oh. _Oh_.

He tightens his fingers and fucks forward into Patrick’s mouth, and the noise Patrick makes in his throat sounds like heaven.

Patrick's swallowing him down, taking everything Jonny's got, letting Jonny use him. Jonny watches as his spit-slick cock disappears into Patrick's mouth again and again and again. This is everything Jonny never knew he could ask for. 

He tugs Patrick's hair, whispers "Shit, Pat, I'm gonna-" and Patrick hollows his cheeks _hard_. Jonny drops his head back against the door and comes down his throat. 

"Hey," Jonny slurs when he can use his voice again. "Hey, c'mere, lemme help you."

Patrick laughs, the sound rough and fucked out and _god_ Jonny did that. He holds out his hand, sticky with come. 

"Too late, man. I'm good."

"Oh fuck," Jonny whispers, hauls Patrick upright, slots their mouths together. 

When they finally tumble from the room, a janitor generously pretends not to see them. 

Getting their shit together means road trips are great. 

Patrick fucks Jonny for the first time in Dallas,spreads him out on clean white hotel sheets that crease beneath his fingers. 

Jonny watches a bead of sweat trail down Patrick's neck, settle between his collarbones. He wants to taste it but he can’t even move right now, just digs his fingers in tighter as Patrick rocks into him, slow and reverent. 

"Holy shit, Jonny, Jonny, oh my god, you feel, fuck, this is amazing," Patrick babbles, snapping his hips forward with a little more force.

Jonny plants his feet on the bed, drags Patrick down for a kiss. 

"Gonna let me see for myself next time?* Jonny asks, mouthing wetly at Patrick's shoulder. 

Patrick's hips stutter. "Fuck, yeah, anything, man. Anything."

He wraps his hand around Jonny's dick and it's not long before they're a pile of loose limbs, sweaty and exhausted. Patrick's lying across his chest, heavy and warm. 

Jonny drops a kiss into Patrick's hair, because it’s there and he can. He'd never admit it out loud, but this definitely beats picking up. 

They never actually talk about what this is, and if they’re allowed to sleep with other people. When they go out with the team, they still flirt with girls, still put in the work like they're gonna take home anyone but each other. They slink back to the table, wry smiles on their faces, muttering about having shitty luck. Sometimes Sharpy looks at them like he knows too much, but nobody else seems to notice how often they leave at the same time. 

It’s not that it’s really a secret, so much as it feels amazing having something no one else can put hands on.

It’s not that it’s a secret, except it is, and it’s theirs, and they’re gonna keep it for a while.

So of course Jonny almost blows it himself.

The first time Jonny calls Patrick "babe," it's a total accident. Patrick’s just scored a goal, a sweet tap in that slid right past Norrena and Jonny yells _atta babe_. He freezes for a moment, just for a moment, but no one mentions it. When he looks over, Patrick’s beaming at him like the fucking sun.

That was close.

The second time is in Jonny’s bed. He’s got Patrick on hands and knees, face pressed into the mattress as he pushes in. He’s got his hands wrapped tight around Patrick’s hips when he whispers, “Shit, babe, so good,” against Patrick’s neck.

Patrick comes all over himself. 

The third time, the third time is an experiment. He drops a “fuck yeah, babe” in when he’s blowing Patrick and he doesn't even have time to get his mouth back on Patrick's cock afterward. Patrick comes so hard that he’s a useless mess and Jonny has to finish himself off, bitching the whole time.

So _that’s_ a thing.

He keeps using it, because it’s obviously working for Patrick, which means Jonny’s winning at this whole sex thing.

Which is the point, obviously.

So he’s a little surprised when they’re making out one night and Patrick tells him, “Dude, you gotta stop _calling_ me that,” digs his fingernails into Jonny’s shoulders.

“Why?”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. “Because. Because it’s not like that.”

Jonny has no idea what it _is_ like. He knows he hasn’t slept with anyone else in months. He also knows that this is something they don’t talk about.

He wants to talk about it.

“What if - shit, Pat, hang on a sec,” he says, pushing Patrick off.

Patrick sits back on his heels. “What the fuck?”

“When’s the last time you picked up?”

He looks thoughtful. “I dunno. Three months ago?”

“When’s the last time you actually wanted to?”

Now he looks embarrassed. “Fuck you.”

“Pat.”

“Okay, fine.” Then, quietly, “Three months ago.”

Jonny takes a deep breath, then another. 

“What if I want it to be like that?”

Patrick makes a noise like a wounded animal. “Do you? Want it to be like that?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Okay. that’s. That’s. Me too.” Patrick punches him gently in the side. “I think you owe me some dates, fuckface.”

Jonny laughs, relieved and content and so damn glad. “Don’t get romantic on me now, bitch.”

This time, Patrick punches him harder. Jonny just rolls him over and kisses him.

“Gonna date you so fucking hard,” Jonny says between kisses.

“Oh yeah?” Patrick grins up at him. “Prove it.”

Well, now it’s a goddamn challenge.

Jonny picks Patrick up from the Bowmans' on a Friday off, clad in his nicest jeans and his favorite button-down. Patrick's wearing the same thing, his plaid blue instead of red. 

The drive is quiet, bordering on awkward, and Jonny bites his lip because he doesn't know why this feels so weird and why he can't seem to fix it. Patrick's tapping his fingers in a nervous rhythm against his thigh and Jonny wants to grab his hand, make him stop. 

Things don't get better when they get to the restaurant, the conversation stilted and forced because this isn't what they've ever been about. Patrick keeps his eyes on the table and answers questions in the fewest words possible. 

Jonny hooks his ankle around Patrick's. 

"Hey," he murmurs. "Nothing's changed. We're the same as we've always been. Just. Breathe, okay?"

Patrick meets his eyes for the first time all night and exaggeratedly holds his breath. 

Jonny kicks him. 

It's stupid, but it’s better after that, words flowing between them more freely. It still feels different, though, feels important. Jonny doesn't know why. 

He drops Patrick off after, kisses his cheek at the door because if he's gonna do this, he's doing it right. Patrick rolls his eyes, but he's smiling when he closes the door.

When he gets home, Seabs yells _congrats_ at him from down the hall. He goes to bed feeling weirdly warm. 

The guys know something's changed when they go out and neither of them tries to pick up at all. Someone cracks a joke about the pussy being that good and Sharpy shoots beer right out of his nose.

"Something like that," he says and Jonny feels his neck color. 

There's no way in hell they're coming out to the team tonight, or maybe ever. He knows Sharpy and Seabs know, and that means Duncs probably does, too. Outside of that, Jonny's not sure he wants anyone to know. It's something he's fine playing pretty close to his chest for a while. 

He figures he and Patrick'll talk that out someday.

The Hawks finish the season with a winning record, which is awesome, but they miss the playoffs, which fucking sucks. Jonny knows, rationally, that it takes longer than a season to right a sinking ship. That doesn't make it hurt any less. 

Patrick comes over after they've cleaned out their lockers, lies next to Jonny on the bed and talks about next season, about the summer, about nothing at all. Jonny kisses him, slow and soft, lets him tease clothing over heads and hips. They still don’t know what the summer will bring, but it doesn’t matter right now, not when he’s got his legs wrapped around Patrick’s waist.

Patrick keeps it slow, which is new, which is _good_ , and it’s building stars behind Jonny’s eyes. He knows he’s being too loud because Seabs is in the living room but he can’t stop and Patrick claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds. He has to shift his weight to do it, and _god_ that’s even better, has Jonny almost sobbing, and Patrick lets out a string of curses as he screws in a little tighter.

Jonny bites down on the flesh of Patrick’s palm when he comes because the alternative is much louder.He’s worn out in the best way, overwrought and oversensitive as Patrick fucks him faster, chasing his own release. This is one of Jonny’s favorite parts, watching the way Patrick sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, the way his flush spreads steadily toward his navel, the way his whole body goes tense just before he unravels completely.

He wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and whispers _stay_.

It’s the first time Patrick spends the night.

Seabs makes them both breakfast in the morning and doesn’t say a thing.

Patrick leaves after, with no plans for the summer beyond Buffalo, the same way Jonny’s got no plans beyond Winnipeg, and that’s okay because Jonny still isn’t sure this is supposed to be like that. He knows he’ll see Patrick next season and he knows he’ll see him at the NHL Awards and, really, that feels like enough. There’s phones and Skype and airplanes if he decides it isn’t.

In mid-June, Jonny finds himself at some pre-awards show thing, dressed to the nines, pacing the tacky carpet in his uncomfortable dress shoes. People keep asking him where Patrick is, and he wishes he knew, but Patrick hasn’t responded to any of his texts.

When Patrick finally comes running in, forty fucking seven minutes late, he’s wearing shorts and a godforsaken tuxedo jacket. Jonny should feel annoyed, or embarrassed, or anything other than like he’s got lightning for blood. But there’s a warmth that starts up in his stomach every time Patrick walks through the door and it seeps through him till his whole body tingles.

He thinks maybe that’s a conversation for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm embarrassing [here](http://fadeastride.tumblr.com) on a daily basis.


End file.
